Choices
by Romantina
Summary: Moriarty challenges Sherlock to a sadistic game of choices. WARNING: non-graphic but disturbing content.
1. Chapter 1

Choices

"Have you figured out why you are here yet?", he asked with his feather soft voice.

Sherlock remained silent. Ever since their last meeting on the rooftop he knew the less he says, the better. The only person who reads between the lines better than a genius is a psychopath.

"Well?", he turned away from the window and slowly approached the armchair Sherlock was sitting in. A slight grin was playing on his lips, making him look like a mischievous child with a menace on his mind, "Oh, c'mon, honey, give me something, anything! This is a game for two. And I admit you are a great player."

Sherlock knew exactly what was happening – Moriarty was toying with his ego. Pretty obviously, added to. He was not trying to hide it because he knew Sherlock would give in. And Sherlock knew it very well himself. That drove him insane, but he surrendered:

"Your one and only goal that I know of have always been my ultimate destruction."

"That's my boy. It is always a pleasure making you dance under my lead. You submit to me so well."

Sherlock was trying to keep a neutral expression but it wasn't easy. Moriarty was staring at him in silence, smiling gently. It was so quiet in the room Sherlock could almost hear the throbbing of his inexistent heart.

"But you see, even you can be predictable. And to prove this I offer you a game of choices", Moriarty turned his back and started walking slowly around the room, "You can say yes or no. If you say no, I give you my word that you will be free to walk away from here undisturbed."

There was a long pause. Sherlock could sense Moriarty waiting for his question. From his profile he could see a self-confident grin. Moriarty could forever wait patiently just for the pleasure of Sherlock submitting to his game.

Moriarty turned He faced Sherlock agai. On his face one could read a divine happiness. Never before had he resembled a child so much. Cruelty, confidence and pure joy were written all over his complexion. He was beaming. He stared walking really slowly back to the armchair Sherlock was seated in. The more he approached the happier he looked. His pupils dilated. He must have been experiencing a long moment of ecstasy.

"And if I say yes?", Sherlock heard his own voice asking and he could have sworn he had lost control over it for good.

"Thanks for asking!", Moriarty was radiant. He even took Sherlock's stone cold hand in his warm palms and shook with honest respect, "If you say yes, I will ask you to make three choices. I will prove that I can predict every answer of yours because I have them written down here."

He took out four small pieces of paper from his pocket and placed them before Sherlock. The numbers from one to four were written neatly on the upside. Sherlock knew the answers were beneath.

"You said three questions and yet I see four sheets."

"You are marvellous", Moriarty purred, "Yes, the sheets are 4 because you also need to say yes or no to my offer. My answer is under sheet number one."

They exchanged looks and both of them knew exactly what the other was thinking.

"But let us not play telepathy. Tell me: yes or no?"

"I will not say anything before I know the rules of the game."

"Ah!", Moriarty exclaimed and approached a small table where a white porcelain teapot and two cups were served. He took his time to pour some tea in both of them and handed one to Sherlock.

"If you agree to play and you win, I will let you go. If you lose, I will kill you", he said calmly while stirring his tea.

"There is more to it, though", Sherlock said.

"Yes", simply answered Moriarty and placed his spoon in his saucer, "If you decide to play the game, regardless of you winning or losing, at least one innocent person will die. All the people involved in the game are people you know."

Sherlock felt his blood running cold.

"But if you say no, no harm will be done to any of them. You will walk away like the biggest, most ordinary loser and you will be back to your mundane life."

At this moment Sherlock resembled a statue and only Moriarty could see what was happening behind his frozen eyes.

"Oh, and if I lose, you and whoever is left alive from the others will be free to walk away alive and safe. And I promise you will never hear from me ever again. Do you want some sugar with your tea?"

Sherlock ignored the question. Every molecule in his body was pumping out adrenaline. Moriarty was calm. He drank a big sip of his tea.

"I am telling you, Sherlock, I know what you are going to choose in every situation. If you back off, you will be ruined. If you decide to play, you will lose and die in disgrace. If you win, you would wish you were dead. This game has destroyed you already without you having made a choice yet. You will die one way or another. This is not another joke like The Fall. This is the end of you."

Moriarty had leaned forwards and was speaking so softly as if he was reading a bedtime story. His eyes were two big black circles.

"The time has come for you to choose. The price of innocent blood is on the line. Yet, I know, as if I could see in the future, what your choice will be. You are predictable, and I will prove it. You can't escape from me anymore because I am inside your mind."

Sherlock could not quite figure out what is this feeling of his spirit escaping his body even though he was still breathing. It was insecurity. It was loss. It was fear.

"So what shall it be?", Moriarty's voice brought him back to reality, "What is your choice?

Sherlock was silent. Moriarty leaned forward and placed his hand on the first sheet of paper, containing the prediction of Sherlock's first choice. His face resembled the one of a lover waiting for his beloved to answer to his marriage proposal. Sherlock started breathing heavily. He felt the burst of sweat from every pore of his skin. The room started spinning. Blood was pumping in his ears.

"YES!", he shouted. He felt the beginning if a battle inside him – relief and regret were struggling to take over him.

Moriarty flipped the piece of paper and leaned back. He was triumphant. Sherlock shot a glance at what was written on the small sheet. For the first time he actually understood what power Moriarty has over him. That was the beginning of the end. Moriarty's elegant handwriting was now forever imprinted in his brain with the words from the paper: "_The game is on_"


	2. Chapter 2

A few hours before Sherlock started Moriarty's game he was sitting in his armchair. That was about it. That was all he was doing. He had no case, no perspective for one, he was all by himself. At some point his eyes accidentally passed by the laptop screen. 1 in the afternoon. A few seconds later it happened again. 7 in the evening. His body hasn't moved an inch. He didn't remember what he was doing before he sat in the armchair. He didn't remember when he sat in the armchair. It must have been sometime this week, surely. Time is an illusion anyway. A framework that helps the ordinary people not commit a suicide when they feel overwhelmed by the vastness and beauty of the universe.

There is nothing. No one. Even him. Where is he now? He is with Mary. And he is… what was the name of that emotion that people call the state of living a lie and not using your brain?... Happiness! That must be it. Yes, he must be happy now. That woman got him, charmed him with some prosaic words about…sentiment…and he, oddly enough, fell for it. It must be a powerful thing, this one, as he is with her now, not here. But what can be greater, more fascinating than a challenge for the mind? A challenge for the heart, maybe. Anyhow, he will remain special. The amazing king of order and habit…

A knock on the door disturbed his trail of thoughts for a second but he ignored it completely. He heard some irritated voices in the distance but it didn't make any difference for him. Until he heard a calming voice mixed with them. Calm and familiar. A voice that always made him feel good…

Sherlock, you can't order special deliveries and then not answer your door – he heard the voice approaching him. He didn't move, didn't turn back.

Are you OK? – Sherlock felt the warm palm of that someone whose company lately was more of a guilty pleasure rather than a privilege.

He opened his eyes and stared right in front of him.

I am just fine, John. And I don't have to even look at you to know that you are feeling better than…ever.

Now wait a minute – John stood in front of him and tried to make an eye contact but Sherlock looked away. – What's wrong?

Nothing – answered Sherlock with a cold even voice and cast him a piercing look.

Oh, please, don't be stubborn. I haven't come for that…

What did you come for, then?

To see you.

…

I realised that I haven't seen you often ever since I got married. So I told Mary that I would like to take a week off and spend it with you…

You are going to spend a week with me…and not see your wife?

If you don't mind.

So you will not call her?

Probably not, unless…

And you will not talk about her?

Well since I am with you we will stick to what we…

And you will not spend any time thinking about her?

Do you except my company for a week or not?

Sherlock was silent.

So this is what is bothering you – said John with a playful smile on his face. – That we don't spend as much time as we used to.

Shut up, John, nothing is bothering me, distress is a sentiment and as I've always said this is on the losing side.

John was still smiling warmly. He looked amused at his friend's attempt to keep himself cool. "It is ok, Sherlock, I miss you, too".

How about a cuppa? – he said out loud.

That would be nice, I guess.

I'm on it then – he headed to the kitchen but almost immediately turned around. – Sorry, I almost forgot, this is for you, I took it from the delivery man.

Sherlock took what John handed him. A package so small it made his palm look giant. He started slowly and meticulously unpacking the white paper it was wrapped in.

Is Mrs Hudson not at home? – he heard John asking from the kitchen.

I don't know, I haven't had a human contact for three days I think – murmured Sherlock, still unwrapping.

Jesus, Sherlock! I came in the right moment then… Maybe it is my fault as well. Haven't hung out with anyone for a long time. I called Greg as well , you know, he didn't answer – he turned back to Sherlock but he seemed preoccupied with the package.

Nothing from Mrs Hudson either. Or your brother – he thought that at least this will provoke some surprise. After all, John and Mycroft never actually hung out, so Sherlock should be well shocked John tried to reach him. But no reaction followed. "The kid has a new toy, leave him to it", thought John with a smile while pouring tea in two cups. He lifted the tray and returned to the armchair by the window.

I wanted to ask you if you had heard anything from Molly…Sherlock?

John realised Sherlock hadn't heard a word ever since he opened the tiny package. John felt immediately shivers down his spine. Not he had rarely made deductions. But in these rare cases he was usually right. It might have been just intuition, he wasn't sure. But he was convinced he knew who the package was from. Whatever it contained, it was in Sherlock's hand. It was clenched in a tight fist and he was breathing heavily.

What is inside? – he whispered.

Sherlock opened his palm. John picked up the item: a white king from a set of chess. It was unusually heavy for its minute size as it was made from white sparkling marble.

I don't understand – John looked to Sherlock, bewildered.

Without saying a word, Sherlock handed him a piece of paper which John remembered being attached to the package.

"_Come and play, if you dare, angel. – Your Black Queen"_

So John's senses were right. He looked to his friend.

I know how tempted you are, Sherlock. But you don't have to do it. You mustn't, in fact.

Sherlock was silent.

He is testing you. You have to make the right choice.

Sherlock was immovable.

You are much stronger than your desires. Don't play his game. Don't be a victim.

Sherlock wasn't even breathing anymore. John shook him and almost shouted at him.

Listen to me, Sherlock. All the time, he is giving you an opportunity to destroy yourself and everything you love. And every time you fall for your only weakness. It is different now. Just don't do it. DON'T GO!

No reply.

I know you can make the right choice. Please, Sherlock. For me.

Sherlock looked at him. And John knew he had lost. In his eyes he saw insanity. Sherlock had given up.

You always say that the heart should never rule the head – John said softly, his voice faint with pain.

He is in my head – was the reply, after which Sherlock stood up and rushed through the door.

Never before - after Afghanistan, after the murder of his previous dearest friend and not even after Sherlock's fake death – had John felt such crippling loss.


	3. Chapter 3

"Right, so, my dear, the name of the game is 'Choices'", said Moriarty while elegantly leaving his armchair and started circling slowly around Sherlock, "Everyone makes choices. You, me, everyone."

"Yes", Sherlock retorted silently. "And for every choice we have to face the consequences that come".

"How very true, darling", purred Moriarty as he stopped in front of him for a second and looked at him, not even trying to hide the mock in his eyes. "I chose to be your adversary, the only worthy one, in fact, and now I am paying for it. I am stuck here with you, desperately trying to entertain myself with a game designed especially for you. A game that you will lose. Because you chose to be boring."

"It's not like I haven't played your games before. People have died as a result. So I see nothing new in this one."

"Don't worry, I will not disappoint you", Moriarty said with a smile. "This time I added a little extra something to spice things up."

"And what is it?"

Moriarty leaned over Sherlock. His breath gently moved the curls around Sherlock's ear.

"Your heart", he whispered softly, stood up, so that Sherlock could see the satanic expression on his face. Without breaking the eye contact, Moriarty snapped his fingers. Amidst the heavy silence, Sherlock could hear muffled voices of people coming nearer. The voices were accompanied by hefty footsteps emitting dull thud. The voices didn't want to come. They were being dragged by force. They entered the room and Sherlock's last hopes not to see what he deducted he would turned into vapour. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were ushered into the room by four masked men clenched to them like predators to their prey.


End file.
